'I always thought you might be autistic,' his mother muttered as she headed into the kitchen. 'I wonder if that could be part of your defense.'
Martin opened his eyes. His job! His livelihood! His co-workers were the only friends he had. What would he do without this social outlet? Where would he go for the camaraderie, the connection to the outside world? He studied himself in the hall mirror. The hardness in his eyes was new. Was this the man that An had seen, this alternative Martin who viewed the world as a desperate and dastardly place?
Evie tossed the keys at Martin. He tried to catch them as they bounced off his face. 'Fill it up with gas before you bring it back.'
Martin leaned down to pick up the keys. 'It should have a full tank.'
'I had to get some things at the store. I'm an old woman with a fucking criminal for a son. Who knew how long you'd be in the pokey?'
Martin tried not to think about his mother driving. Her cataracts had robbed her of all peripheral vision. She had side-swiped the mailbox last week with the riding lawnmower.
He glanced at his watch. Southern Toilet Supply would be closed by now. 'I'm going to work to clean out my desk,' he told her, sadness enveloping him. How could he be fired? Why would Norton Shaw do this to him? Martin had not been convicted of a crime. He liked Sandy. Why on earth would he kill her?
Evie narrowed her eyes at him. 'If you were really innocent, you'd threaten Southern with a lawsuit for firing you without cause.'
'I am innocent!' he screamed. 'Mother, you know I was home last night.'
She gave her Cheshire Cat grin. They both knew that this was not entirely the truth.
It seemed fitting that Martin drove his mother's car to Southern Toilet Supply. He felt as if he was living inside a Janet Evanovich novel, so it was only natural that, like Stephanie Plum, he was stuck behind the wheel of an elderly relative's powder blue Cadillac. This was no farcical murder mystery, though. This was real life. As if to put a fine point on it, Martin slowed the car at the sight of the police tape marking the scene of Sandy's death.
Poor Sandy. Poor broken Sandy. Sure, she had teased him, but that didn't mean that she deserved to die. Even Evie had said as much. 'What a corker!' she had exclaimed when Martin told her about the fiasco with the glued sex instrument. (Evie had asked about the piece of rubber that the GlooperGone had mysteriously melted into his thumb. Even two weeks later, the faded purple line was still there.)
The car behind him beeped its horn and Martin pressed the accelerator, pulling away from the scene of the crime. He still kept the speedometer well under the limit as he drove to Southern, mindful that An had warned him to keep his nose clean. He thought the warning was very kind of her, but then An seemed like a kind person. He still could not get over the caring look she had given him in the interrogation room just before she'd jumped out of her chair to get away from the splatter of vomit that flooded the table. He hoped that she had copies of those photos he'd ruined. She would need them for her case.
The car behind him swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic, horn blaring as it darted in front of the Cadillac.
'Oh, dear,' Martin muttered, jerking the steering wheel, trying to get out of the way. The wheels bumped on to the shoulder of the road and he turned sharply into the parking lot of a strip mall, hands gripping the wheel, foot slamming on to the brake. The car shuddered to a stop. Martin looked up in time to see a neon sign blinking to life in the afternoon dusk.
Madam Glitter's. If Martin were really in a novel, this would be a prime example of foreshadowing. Or was it aftershadowing? Because, in fact, the thing had already happened.
The truth was that Martin had, in fact, taken his mother to get her trowel from the Peony Club's storage facility, which was directly across the street from the strip mall wherein Madam Glitter's was housed. Martin had sat in his mother's Cadillac (she refused to be seen in the 'twat-mobile'), watching the sign glow in the evening light. 'Stressed? Tired out? Need a lift?' the letters had asked. 'Professional Massage at Reasonable Prices! Walk- ins welcome!'
Martin had never had a massage, and the truth was that ever since he'd spent three hours scraping the last remnants of the vibrating dildo off his desk, his back was killing him. There was a kink in his neck and a knot just under his shoulder blade that felt as if a hot knife was jabbing between his ribs every time he moved his right arm. What was massage for if not that very thing?
He had thought about the massage the entire drive back to the house, drowning out Evie's complaints about 'that bitch who runs the gardening club like she's the head Nazi at Dachau.'
This is what he imagined: an earthy young woman with a ring in her nose and bare feet would meet him at the front door. Maybe there would be some nice hot tea and cookies. Chimes would tinkle, perhaps the burbling of a small fountain would fill the air. Was there such a thing as a healing touch? Martin had read about a study in one of his magazines where rabbits were being used to test cholesterol medication. One of the rabbit groups showed amazing results, and it was later learned that the keeper of the group had been stroking their backs when she fed them. Could the same thing happen for Martin? Could the loving strokes of another human being change some intrinsic part of him into a happy being?
'I'll be back later,' Martin had told his mother, pulling away from the curb in front of the house as soon as Evie was out of the car.
'What the fuck-' she said, just before the forward motion jerked the car door closed.
As he drove, Martin felt himself relax just thinking about the massage. He even sped, pushing the Cadillac five miles over the posted speed limit. He was picturing this new, reckless side of himself. What would Unique say tomorrow when he managed to slip into the conversation that he had gotten a massage? Would he be some kind of metrosexual because of this? Would he start using scented shaving cream for his weekly shave? Would he get pedicures like Unique? Ha! Wouldn't she think that was funny? Wouldn't she be jealous!
He pulled up in front of Madam Glitter's and parked right outside the front door. As soon as he got out of the car, his feelings of elation started to leave him. Heavy drapes covered the windows. The front door had a large handicap sticker on it, the words, 'We specialize in special needs' underneath. Worse, there was a fast-food restaurant next door, so that when Martin entered Madam Glitter's, he was overwhelmed by the scent of fried chicken.
'You want a massage?' the woman behind the desk demanded. She was large, possibly one of the largest people he had ever seen (and that was saying a lot – there were some beefy women on Evie's side of the family).
'I was… uh…' Martin felt his feet start to move backward.
'Fifty dollars. I don't take credit cards.' The woman nodded toward a closed door. 'Go in there, take off your clothes and I'll be there in a second.'
Martin stood where he was, frozen in place.
'Move,' she barked, so Martin did.
The chicken smell was even more overpowering in the small massage room. There was a table in the center with a single hand towel at the place where Martin supposed his lower half would rest. He unclipped his tie and hung it on a hook jutting out of the wall. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his dress shirt, and he felt silly for it, because, after all, this was a therapeutic massage, not a
Still, how long had it been since he had been naked in front of a woman? He tried to think back. There had been a girl in high school, a sweet young lady who wore a back brace to correct her scoliosis. Wendy. Martin smiled at the thought of her, the way her curved spine had felt against his palm. If only she hadn't transferred to a magnet school for smart kids in Atlanta. Then there was Marcia, the woman who worked at the convenience store down the street from Martin's house. That had been something of a misunderstanding, though. Unfortunately, Martin had not realized until he was fully naked that Marcia was, in fact, still fully clothed and walking out the door.
The door opened and he grabbed the towel, covering his nakedness.
'I gotta make this fast,' the woman said, picking up his pants off the floor. She pulled out his wallet as she talked. 'My kid's got the 'flu. I thought he was lying to get out of school, but his sister called and said he has a fever.'
Martin watched her count out fifty dollars and return the wallet to his pants. 'I'm sorry to hear that.'
